


Death's Kiss (unfinished)

by midnighhts



Series: Fictober 2017 [8]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Amélie is a ballerina, Biting, Blood and Injury, Character Death, F/M, Fictober 2017, Horror Elements, Killing, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Consensual Touching, Plague Doctor!Reaper, Rape/Non-con Elements, check notes for further explanation of tags tho, just be careful my dudes, kind of¿, please heed the warnings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-20
Updated: 2017-10-20
Packaged: 2019-01-18 06:49:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12383088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midnighhts/pseuds/midnighhts
Summary: Acclaimed danseuse Amélie Lacroix gets a visit from Death himself.“Madame,” the voice tries again. Old, wheezing, broken. “I am the doctor.”DAY 15 PROMPT ISBITE





	Death's Kiss (unfinished)

**Author's Note:**

> the universe/time setting is generally based off moulin rouge
> 
> uh this is unfinished but a one shot, so the only thing yall missing is the actual death. basically reaper kills her after the end of the draft so shrug.  
> no actual rape, but definitely watch out for the wonky consent™™™™ (which is to say theres like almost none)
> 
> uhh  
> theres a fic similar to this on the plague doctor!reaper tag. i have not read it, and i thought about making this fic before i was aware of that fic, so im not trying to plaigirise here. 
> 
> also OOF i havent been writing, i got sick, and im in bespression rn lol but oof lets go fam
> 
> yeah thats it

The woman quivers and shakes on her rough cot, her frame far too big for the mattress but it's the only one she has. She jerks, and her foot makes contact with her clothes rack, while she elbows a wooden box. Somewhere, distantly, she feels the way her back protests weakly as she arches off the bed. Her legs twinge greater, though, and it cuts through her fever haze. She falls back to the ground like.dead weight. The air rushes from her lungs. It's like hell incarnate, an inferno raging under her skin, bleaching any other memory of pain (her fall, her wounds, her bruises) in comparison.

There are clammy hands on her shoulders now, pressing hard. Cold like ice, tracing a feeling worse than the stinging. She tries to let go of herself. . . but those aren't her hands.

She pries her eyes open. It's a challenge to even find the moment to breathe in without wanting to throw up right after; it's much worse to find herself at the mercy of her dressing room lights. It's worse than the time Maximilian forced her to drink his lurid concoction.

It's not a bird she expects to see. At first, she reasons it's the light through her sickness — must be Akande, and it is only that she perceives him incorrectly. However, though Akande has dark skin, he isn't dark grey and green, nor does he have a beak.

“ _ Qui es-tu _ ?” she tries to force out. She's not sure she makes it.

The strange being makes a sound — speech, maybe — but she doesn't hear it. She just groans, turning to her side as the shakes start once again. Maybe, he is another actor, another danseur. There is a bar down the street; sometimes there are performers. Maybe it is Sombra with the painted face of a demon, or Akande in a costume. Maybe it is Gerard, and this is dance of theirs that has sent her into insanity, or even godhood.

The hands move, trailing bone-chilling fire where it went. They feel clammy, but it must be from her own sweat. She bucks against his hold. It's a clawing feeling that rips through her body like a hurricane, wriggling away from something she can't even see.

There's something cold on her lips now. It dribbles down her chin, over her cheeks. It smells fouler than anything Amélie has ever breathed in — even after living in squalor during her penniless time in the French slums of Britain, or finding old, rotting feces in the backroom during one of her long performances. She struggles even harder, pushing and squirming away, but it is futile to try and escape the hands that hold her.

Something breaks in her, and she has her mouth opening like a woman surging from water to breathe. The biting liquid fills her mouth instantly. She tries to swallow, to breathe, to spit. She only ends up choking. Panic surges through her veins.

“Madame!”

The voice cuts through her haze. It doesn't help her find a moment to breathe without her lungs burning, but it is something she still realises belatedly.

She coughs up the rest of the liquid. Bile rises through her throat, but she forces it down.

“Madame,” the voice tries again. Old, wheezing, broken. “I am the doctor.”

He doesn't speak with the tone of an Englishman, and he definitely isn't Akande. Amélie forces her eyes open. She only sees blurred shapes, but it is progress.

The doctor rattles on again. Amélie hears the word  _ sick _ and  _ dying _ . She can only plead, “ _ Oui, oui, oui, _ ” with something tired in her tone.

Without even another moment, the pain resurges, and the breath is once again knocked out from her. It is a stabbing feeling deep in her stomach, like someone took her insides and twisted them up in a cyclone.

Cold, clammy hands find their way around her body. Through her whole body shudders, she isn't sure where they land. She feels one on her neck, but the other wanders. It feels like a performance: one hand holding her down until she chokes, another gripping her somewhere she doesn't want to be touched to lift her off the ground as she spins and spins.

“Doctor,” she pleads. Her mouth is molten, her tongue inflamed as it sits heavily in the middle of her mouth. “ _ J’ai. . . ça. . . fait--fait si mal. _ ”

“Madame Guillard, you must drink more of this.”

There's that acidic smell presented to her again, and she's not sure if she holds back her gag. She doesn't struggle anymore, though, when the Doctor starts to pour the mixture into her mouth. She takes and takes, drinking despite herself. It even settles something in her, rendering her less maniacal than she was five minutes ago. Her legs are still aflame whilst wrapped in supporting bandages, but now it takes longer for her brain to register it. In a sense, it's a blessing.

Docile now, she sinks into the threadbare mattress. Her limbs are heavier than they've ever been, and she's had to play Odette for six hours straight with no break in her past. Her eyes are heavier, too, from fatigue and weariness.

The doctor's hands are once again roaming. He's poking at her legs, the dark blue bruises along her thighs, the brokenness of her toes and ankles, tracing his spiny fingers over her the bandages on her shins.

“You're a difficult woman to get a hold of, Madame.”

He spans his hand over her thigh, pressing into the prints left behind from nights before. Amélie doesn't stir at the touch, though belatedly she thinks about it.

His other hand reaches up, and pushes her flat on her back. His hands linger too long on her shoulder.

She makes a defeated sound.

“It's unbelievable to be in the company of the famous Guillard danseuse.  _ Enchanting _ .” As he says that, he drags his  _ claws  _ over her chest, resting against the pulse point on her pale neck.

There's that panic again that surges through her body. Her heart rate picks up like a tiny animal under the dangerous gaze of a predator — though try as she might, her body remains rooted to the floor. It's the same properties of stone: her head is full of tumultuous waters, but her body has sunk to the bottom.


End file.
